


Terrible Advice

by heymacareyna



Category: Psy-Changeling - Nalini Singh
Genre: AU, Affectionate Insults, Bickering, DarkRiver, F/M, Insults, Newspaper AU, Newspapers, SnowDancer, passive aggressive insults, rival advice columnists au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-14
Updated: 2015-12-14
Packaged: 2018-05-06 15:32:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5422361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heymacareyna/pseuds/heymacareyna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mercy and Riley are rival advice columnists at their respective newspapers, the DarkRiver Press and the SnowDancer Times, and like to push each other's buttons by passive aggressively insulting each other through their responses to letters. But they've never met in person... until a work retreat brings them together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Terrible Advice

 

> _Dear Mercy,_
> 
> _My mate needs open affection, but I have trouble expressing it. How can I rewire my brain to give her what she needs?_
> 
> _Straight as an Arrow_
> 
> _Dear Straight as an Arrow,_
> 
> _Baby steps. Make sure you’re good with each step you take—it might have the opposite effect if you try to go too fast. Whether you’re naturally more closed-off or have had negative experiences that led you to try to protect yourself, use your grown-up words to explain to her that you’re trying but that it’s a work in progress._
> 
> _Of course, SOME PEOPLE are such sticks in the mud that they may never overcome their natural tendencies. But I’m sure you have the willpower to change when you want to._
> 
> _Mercy_

Mercy Smith leaned back in her desk chair and took a leisurely spin, pen in her mouth as she contemplated the next letter. Her sleek professional attire belied the cowboy boots on the floor beside her, kicked off so she could think better.

Allotting herself a five-minute break, she reached for the folded newspaper beside her. It was face-down and covered up to hide the fact that it was not today’s issue of DarkRiver Press, her esteemed employer, but rather… their rival, the SnowDancer Times. _It’s not like I read the whole thing,_ she reasoned to herself as she furtively flipped it open to the advice column. Her manager, Lucas, had told her to keep up on similar publications, so this counted as homework, right?

The fact that a fresh copy of the SD Times found its way to her desk every morning was just convenient. And it was completely unrelated to the copy of the DR Press that she stuck in the door of a certain news-publishing house on her way to work.

She found the column, grinned, and slouched over to read it.

 

 

> _Dear Riley,_
> 
> _I’m in charge of a growing military community, and between my actual job and helping others settle down, it feels like I’m always working. What’s a good balance between business and fun?_
> 
> _Constantly Running Around_
> 
> _Dear Constantly Running Around,_
> 
> _It sounds like you’re doing good work. Nothing to be ashamed of on that front. Work is a good thing, despite what SOME PEOPLE might argue. Those who degrade hard, dedicated workers probably live in spiraling chaos. Take their advice with many grains of salt._
> 
> _As it is, make sure you’re getting enough sleep, eating enough healthy food, and drinking enough water. Try to take an hour for yourself each week, but if it doesn’t happen, it’s not the end of the world._
> 
> _Riley_

 

“Ha!” Mercy cackled. “That’s the best you got, nerd?”

Extensive scientific studies had long ago confirmed that Riley what’s-his-nuts, advice columnist for SD Times, was in fact a workaholic and a stick in the mud. She’d never met him, never even seen him, and she hoped to keep it that way, but she did enjoy slinging passive-aggressive insults at him at every opportunity and taking them in return.

Invigorated by the insolence, she flipped through some of the letters she’d received. The deadline was racing toward her, and though her main job was in the media center, she relished the sarcasm and wit that the advice columnist position allowed her. She hadn’t yet failed to produce on time.

One letter stuck to her fingers, and it wouldn’t have been her first choice—it had no immediate opening to diss Riley. But she had a strong opinion, and usually those offended someone. Maybe she’d strike gold.

She opened a Word document.

* * *

 The next morning, Riley Kincaid found the usual DR Press newspaper stuffed in the door to the SD Times office. He was always the first to work; the only time it hadn’t been there was when Indigo, the editor-in-chief, had had to make a four a.m. visit and tossed it in the recycles on her way out. He’d been irritable all day for reasons he didn’t care to explore. But today it was here, and he expertly juggled his coffee and his brown-bag lunch while opening doors and folding open the inked paper to the Editorial section.

The DarkRiver advice staff, a woman who went by the name Mercy, consistently drove him up the wall. And he kept coming back for more.

Like today’s column:

> _Dear Mercy,_
> 
> _I want a dog, and my significant other wants a cat. How do we compromise?_
> 
> _Tearing Out My Fur_
> 
> _Dear Tearing Out My Fur,_
> 
> _Any sane person will tell you that cats are better than dogs._
> 
> _That said, if neither of you is willing to back down, can you get one of each?_
> 
> _But really, why would you want a dog if you could have a cat._
> 
> _Mercy_    

 

Riley felt frustration claw at his throat, and it was only years of experience maintaining a poker face that kept him from blubbing like a fish. _Of course_ Mercy liked cats. Just one more thing to add to the list of reasons they would never see eye to eye.

Literally as well as figuratively. He’d never met her in person, so he couldn’t know for sure, but she was probably one of those short little women who wore their sass like it gave them an extra foot.

He had no interest in meeting her to confirm this, though, so it was irrelevant.

This advice answer felt like a kick at him, even if he had no idea how she could know he was a dog person. But he scrounged through old submissions and found the perfect letter to answer.

 

> _Dear Riley,_
> 
> _I’m allergic to dogs, but I want one. Is it worth the reactions?_
> 
> _Sniffly But Snuggly_
> 
> _Dear Sniffly But Snuggly,_
> 
> _Yes. Dogs are the world’s best companions. Avoid cats at all costs—they’re moody creatures and prone to biting. Anyone who prefers cats over dogs deserves the miserable existence to which they’ve resigned themselves. Terrible judgment._
> 
> _Riley_
> 
>  

It wouldn’t go out until tomorrow’s issue, but that would have to be soon enough. 

* * *

Ahhh, that reaction. Even better than Mercy could’ve hoped for. Strutting around with a self-satisfied smirk, she almost ran into jack-of-all-trades Dorian, who gave her a once-over. “What?”

“You look like the cat who got the canary.” And her best friend knew her well enough to see it. Or maybe she was just that obvious. “Sorry about your luck, by the way.”

“My luck?”

Lucas came around the corner then, hands in his pockets in a too-amiable posture. “Mercy, come here. I need to talk to you.”

She nodded, then ducked her head just enough to shoot Dorian a Look: _More warning would’ve been nice!_ Luckily she doubted she was about to lose her job(s), but if _Dorian_ had sympathized… She joined Lucas in the hall, aiming to mirror his friendliness. “What’s up?”

Unfortunately, Lucas was her boss as well as her friend, and this was a Boss Conversation. “You remember that conference I told you I might need you to attend?”

A weekend-long thing, two hours away. A bunch of columnists in a seminar together for hours on end. _Please no._ “Yeah, didn’t you say Vaughn had something at the same time?” Vaughn D’Angelo, the Arts lead, not that you’d know it to look at him. And Lucas had said he’d rather only have one person off at a time, which meant she’d be free from the torture.

Lucas nodded. The relief only lasted moments. “He did. It was postponed. So I want you to go after all.”

 _Noooooooo, come on._ Instead of voicing the complaint, though, she went with the more professional, adult subversion. “I didn’t make any arrangements.”

“The company’ll take care of it. Don’t worry."

“All right. When is it, again?”

* * *

Friday morning, Riley checked into the columnists’ conference, dressed extra professionally with his laptop bag slung over his shoulder. Hawke had insisted he come, so here he was, and he hoped he’d pick up a few tricks that would make the three-hour drive worthwhile. And in case he didn’t, he’d brought a flash drive full of letters to review and answer. No reason to waste three days.

Signage told him that the orientation/welcome meeting was “Right Through Here!” so he shouldered the double doors open and stepped into a bustling auditorium. Burgundy carpet under probably two hundred seats, glittering chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. He was suddenly glad he’d dressed up.

The meeting was about to start, so he went ahead and took a seat toward the middle, looking around to get a feel for how this was going to play out. The crowd seemed to be half men, half women, most of whom were currently chatting with the presenters and one another. _Maybe I should socialize,_ he considered, and then decided against it. At this point, the result wouldn’t balance the effort.

In the bustle of neutrals, though, he found his eye repeatedly drawn to a bright color—a vivid red ponytail, impossibly long. It swung from the head of a tall woman, curvy and fit, who laughed unreservedly and often. People gathered around her as if magnetized, and although he couldn’t hear the conversation from his seat, it was clear she’d made friends.

To distract himself, he looked around for Mercy, or what he imagined Mercy would look like: short with thick curves, probably a dull brown bob, a permanent crease in her brow. Possibly followed around by irritated and/or offended colleagues. He could admit to himself that this was a caricature, but he wasn’t convinced it was completely _wrong_ , either. _Either way, I’m happy never to meet her._

When one of the presenters found a microphone and asked everyone to take a seat, Riley automatically glanced around for that head of red again, but she had disappeared. She must have been a presenter mingling before returning to her prep work. Strangely unsettled, he leaned back in his seat.

And then… a light kick against its back.

People were moving around, trying to get settled, so he figured it was an accident and ignored it. Until it happened again, and again.

With a deep breath he turned, ready to pull out his Big Brother tone, and found himself face to face with the vivacious redhead.

“Hey,” she said, head cocked toward him.

He no longer understood English. “Hello,” he managed, a beat too late.

“Are you planning on talking to anyone,” she teased, “or just sitting here alone the whole time?”

“I’m talking to you,” he pointed out.

“Yes, and that makes five whole words. I’m so proud.” She flashed an almost feline smile and held out her hand. “No need to be such a stick in the mud.”

He’d already reached out and grasped for the handshake before the words registered. And then he stiffened. _“Mercy?”_

She froze, glanced him over. _“Riley?”_


End file.
